


Show Me How

by Undasque



Category: Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-11
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 04:17:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/402355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Undasque/pseuds/Undasque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Isabella had everything but now she has nothing at all. It's hard to fight when the past keeps haunting her. One man wants her but the other won't let her go. Someone needs to show her how to live.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The original characters and plot of the Twilight Saga are the property of its author. I'm just playing. It's fun.

[](http://s1050.photobucket.com/albums/s417/undasque/?action=view&current=show_m10.jpg)

The door of the waiting room opened suddenly with a loud bang. The foggy light reflected from the glass and brightened Esme's face with its glow. The woman, raised from her stupor, was startled by the noise. Her quiet whispering stopped as she looked around with dead eyes. Her eyes widened as they land on the person who'd opened the door.

She opened her mouth and was about to say something when the other door—that door—slammed open to show Carlisle wearing his bloody white overall and gloves. He mopped his sweaty forehead with his sleeve, unknowingly jostling his surgical cap until it sat askew upon his head.

"Son, we need you. You have to scrub in. I can't do this myself," Carlisle pleaded.

Confused, Esme watched what happened around her. She watched as her son raised his head from his palms, his face a mix of emotions; despair and desperation flashing in his eyes.

He nodded and moved to his father, but he hesitated for a moment and turned over to look in her direction. Esme felt the power in his eyes and she trembled because of huge amount of negative feelings. The hate was pouring from him.

The woman knew that her son was not looking at her; his eyes and his hate was aimed at the guest, the person that was standing behind her completely still and silent. Everything happened in seconds. The man who'd been asked for help went inside just behind her husband and closed the door.

Esme turned around facing the guest behind her.

She wanted to say something, anything. Her throat closed and she couldn't find the right words. Tears began falling down her cheeks and she mopped them away nervously.

"What the fuck do you want here?" she hissed.


	2. The Theory of Evolution

It's been more than a year since Isabella was all alone. The money from the insurance policy was big but not big enough. The thought of investing it didn't resurface in Isabella's depressed mind. It was the bills that made her get up, take a shower, get dressed and attempt to try and find a job.

She looked in the mirror and she didn't recognize her reflection. Was it possible to change so much? For God's sake, it's ludicrous when you're twenty-six and you look like an elderly woman. But this thought disappeared as fast as it appeared in Isabella's mind. She didn't care about her appearance anymore. She turned her focus to more important things. Where should she start looking for a job? She was lost. She didn't even know where to start. She didn't know anybody, and these days when she left it was only to go to the grocery store. What do you do when you know nobody in the city? When you only know where the grocery shop is where do you look for a job?

Isabella slammed the door and straightened the strap on her purse before she placed it on her shoulder. The bag was dangling dolefully in hopeless Isabella style.

Her faded jeans would have set off her legs nicely but since she had lost weight they were too big for her. Her blouse matched the jeans but there was a large stain on the front, its origin greasy, but unknown. Had Isabella noticed it, she still wouldn't have cared.

Isabella hadn't noticed it, and if she did, she would have thought that it didn't matter. She completed her dowdy styling with dirty cowboy boots that she loved. She used them all the time and often refused to take the boots off, even at home.

Isabella, even if she graduated, had no experience as an employee. Firstly, she'd been studying, then she was looking after her sick dad for some time, and then she became a married woman. Then she was left alone where she found substance in a bottle. She spent the years crying and fighting her hangovers.

She didn't want help—which was fine because she didn't have anyone she could rely on. There was no family and no friends—they'd moved on and had their own lives to live. Jacob would've helped her but he'd been mad at her for a long time and she was sure he didn't even think about her anymore. She met Angela long time ago and Angela had said that Jake had his own family and he was fighting hard to feed his wife and children since Forks was becoming a ghost town. Damned crises everywhere.

These thoughts turned to her father's house in Forks. She imagined it sitting there derelict, especially when she thought of the cold winters that hit Forks. She imagined the rotten door and mold on the walls. That vision brought Poe's The Fall of the House of Usher to her mind and she wanted to reread it for a second time, but she couldn't remember the last time she read something that wasn't a canned soup recipe. She then considered the sale of the house in Forks but she chased that thought away as always. The sale of Charlie's house was like a sacrilege and it meant a ton of problems and a lot of things she couldn't deal with at the moment. She knew the hassle well—after all she'd sold her husband's house. And selling Charlie's house meant a journey to Forks; she froze and shivered at that idea.

"Are you ok?" said a woman with concern on her face.

Isabella blinked, looked around, and she realized that she didn't recognize the area. Was it possible that she walked pensively so far from her neighborhood? She panicked but she suppressed the feeling when she remembered that someone had just asked her a question. She looked at the person and was met with a concerned young looking face with warm green eyes—the tiny crow's feet around her eyes were the only sign of her old age. She was surprised that her instinct for self-preservation didn't force her to run, and that she wanted, really really wanted, to answer.

But the words died in her throat. Whose theory assumed that disused organs weaken and deteriorate? Was it Darwin's or Spencer's? She couldn't remember but she knew she'd heard about it before. She strained her memory unsuccessfully. She thought that her brain had died too and she felt some kind of astonished pride because of this sarcastic thought. She chuckled slightly but it sounded like a wheezing.

"Are you ok?" repeated the woman, frowning and looking into Isabella's eyes attentively. "Are you hungry?"

Isabella froze and her eyes widened as she understood the tone of the woman's question. What the fuck? Did she look like homeless person? She took a look at herself and her irritation morphed into embarrassment. Yeah, she looked homeless. She knew that her pants too large, she wore a stained blouse, old shoes, and her hair desperately needed to be cut. Her face? Isabella saw it in the mirror this morning—yellow and skinny with sunken cheeks and dark circles under her eyes. Isabella blushed and made a heroic effort to speak out loud.

"No. I'm not hungry…I'm not homeless, it's just that I haven't been out for a long time. I think I'm lost. I haven't talked to someone for so long…I'm sorry." she said. She turned away and started walking in the opposite direction, ashamed at the whole situation. She quickened the pace desperately wanting to run. "Yeah, job hunting can wait," she thought, shaking her head at her lack of conforming to the social norms.

Suddenly she felt a hand on her shoulder and she jumped slightly, trying to recall all the self-defense moves that Charlie had shown her and all the things that her husband had kept telling her to do in case he was away. It was useless. Even her instinct for self-preservation was not working. "I'm a wreck," she thought in despair. She didn't even turn around, she just lowered her head and waited for what came next.

"Wait, please. I didn't mean to offend you," said the voice and Isabella recognized it as belonging to the woman she had just met.

She turned around and saw that the woman, who wouldn't leave her alone, looked at her with a friendly smile on her face as she reached out a hand in greeting.

"I'm sorry, I was simply concerned. I didn't mean anything bad, please believe me. Let's start again, shall we? My name is Esme Cullen," she said nicely.

Isabella was looking at the woman's—Esme's—hand and considered two options. Running was as tempting like freshly made bed. Or she could stay but that option was scary. She bit her lip, and with some hesitation, held out her own hand, following some absurd and incomprehensible impulse.

"I'm Bella. Bella Whitlock."


	3. The Ash

Later that day Isabella sat on the sofa analyzing everything that had happened that day. Instead of finding a job like she had originally planned, she had met Esme, a nice older lady that bought her coffee. It was too much excitement for one morning, and Isabella had difficulty processing every thought that had been passing through her mind. "It's impossible," she repeated over and over."I did it, I talked to someone." She felt pride and some vague satisfaction as unused muscles in her face allowed her to smile faintly. But that feeling didn't last long. Excitement and a guarded joy from the passing day morphed into stabbing and burning guilt once she realized that she had forgotten about her loss, mourning, and despair.

Isabella stood up and went into the small kitchen. Drinking some coffee in the evening wasn't a good idea but she wasn't going to wake up early.

She shrugged and decided that if she were to find a job later then she'd need to sort herself out, and that meant she needed to go to the hairdresser and get a much needed haircut. She didn't want to look like a homeless person so it needed to be done, but later. Someday in the future, but not today or tomorrow.

She wandered back into the living room, sat on the sofa, and decided that she'd allow herself to do something unhealthy and unreasonable. She took a pack of cigarettes out of the box that sat under the small table next to the sofa. Her husband hated it when she smoked. He'd never said it out loud but he used to show his disapproval with his attitude. Since she felt guilty anyway it didn't make a difference. She decided that another weight on her conscience wouldn't matter much. She lit the cigarette and closed her eyes.

"I'm Bella. Bella Whitlock," she said to the woman.

Not introducing oneself to someone who just said their name is rude. Esme's handshake was confident and tight.

"Nice to meet you, Miss Whitlock," Esme smiled softly. "Can I buy you some coffee to apologize?" she asked.

Isabella bit her lower lip and looked at Esme. The woman was still smiling invitingly. But stubborn Isabella's throat didn't want to let her voice go.

"If you're in a hurry, I'll understand. I just feel stupid that I judged you rashly. I'd like to smooth over that unpleasant impression," Esme added quickly.

Isabella took a deep breath."I'd love to… But I'd rather do it… outside," she said.

She felt ashamed of her slovenly look suddenly and she couldn't imagine herself entering some coffee house.

Isabella looked at her clothes meaningfully. Esme nodded in understanding, still smiling softly. Although she found this smile partly irritating she was also curious about this woman.

Isabella grimaced.

"And it's Mrs. Whitlock, not miss, but I prefer Bella."

"Let's go then, Bella." Esme's eyes glistened with astonishment and interest. "Latte to go?" she asked.

Once they had the coffees they moved to sit on a nearby park bench. Isabella's hands were wrapped tightly around the cup of coffee to try and warm her hands. She was silent because she didn't know what to say and she wondered how to extricate herself from this… act of socialization. "I'll tell her that I'm in a mad rush," she thought.

"I've noticed, that you're feeling uneasy here," Esme's voice, although quiet, still shocked Isabella and she jumped, spilling some of her warm coffee. .

When met with silence, Esme continued, "I understand. We don't have to talk, if you don't want to. Let's just drink that coffee," Esme added.

Isabella forgot about being Isabella and looked Esme in the eye.

"No, we can talk… but I don't know… about what… I'm not used to talking… I haven't done this for so long and…" Isabella muttered and lowered her eyes to her trembling fingers that were wrapped around the cup.

"Done what?" asked Esme.

"This…" Isabella pointed at herself, at Esme and the park. "I haven't talked to someone… for so long."

"How long?" Esme had a different question on the tip of her tongue but she didn't want to scare Bella away. "I'm sorry, you don't have to tell me."

"It's been a year. More than a year." Isabella said, muttering. She took a sip of coffee. It was too sweet and too hot; it nauseated her.

The conversation was heavy going. But it was strange, the silence wasn't burdening them even though Esme was scared to ask all of the questions that she wanted to ask and Isabella had no idea what to say. Isabella quickly finished her coffee and decided it was time to go home. Esme followed her movements in sudden attack of anxiety. It couldn't be like this; it couldn't be that Isabella was to go her own way and Esme wouldn't see her again, she couldn't let that happen. Esme saw Alice in Isabella and that thought hurt like a bitch.

"Bella…wait please. I know this is going to sound weird and you'll probably think I'm strange for suggesting this. I can't explain why, but I'd really like to do this again sometime and I'd really like it if you came to my house for dinner in the future. Please?" She looked at Bella, unease written on her face and she chuckled slightly, "You can even meet my husband and my sons. Then you'll see that I'm not some weird psycho stalker."

Isabella was scared due to the intensity of Esme's speech. She backed up from Esme but she couldn't say no. Not because of her innate kindness or politeness. Not because of her manners. There was something desperate in Esme's outburst, something that told Isabella to make a decision immediately.

"Okay." she said shyly.

"How about I take your number and we can organize something?"Esme asked, a smile on her face.

"I don't have a telephone…" Isabella said, ashamed yet again. Lack of phone is like a lack of… hand or leg. It was a disability in 21th century.

"Umm…Okay. Why don't you meet me here the day after tomorrow at six o'clock?" Esme asked quickly, eager to confirm a definite time they could meet. Isabella nodded and Esme grinned, "Perfect, I'll be waiting just here for you. See you soon Isabella."

Esme reached out looking to shake Isabella's hand but the abrupt movement seemed to scare the girl so at the last minute she primped her hair.

"Sure," said Isabella quietly.

Isabella stubbed out the cigarette and started to brush the ash off of the table. Any delightful feelings that Bella had faded as she tidied up. She could admit it felt good being outside and having someone to talk to. But now, alone in her house, the feelings of remorse and shame washed over her. Everything was back to normal. She turned off the lights and went into the bedroom.

If she had unrolled the blinds she would have spotted the silhouette of someone on the outside.

Someone who kept an eye on her house.


	4. The Visitors

Anticipation reined in Esme's house on the morning of Bella's visit. The landlady bustled about the kitchen, minding the oven and polishing the cutlery.

She had mixed emotions about the upcoming evening. She was excited about Bella's visit but there was also some doubt and fear niggling in her gut.

"Edward, please remember about the dinner tonight," she said to the man who passed by the kitchen door.

He sighed loudly but he didn't said anything. It was the opposite of what his mother expected.

"I'll try," he muttered in reply.

He knew he was lying. He knew that he was not going to try.

He knew, that he wouldn't be at the house tonight..

He could always hope for an emergency, an accident or an earthquake at least. If not, he was going to do all he could to avoid that stupid meeting with Esme's new stray.

Yes, Edward considered Isabella a stray. He considered her a person who wrapped Esme's kind heart and good intentions around her finger. A person, who tried to use his mother and the Cullens. Edward wondered about talking with his father to suggest that Esme needed a psychiatric consultation. Disorganizing his day, cooking, and making Carlisle change his shift in a hospital would never do. And her babbling that she could see Alice in Isabella…Esme was not well, that much was clear.

The man sighed again and put on his coat. Today had been a hard day for him. He'd had to assist in Aro's surgery and that man was a complete asshole. He was lying in wait for Carlisle's son to make mistake, no matter how small of a slip it might be.

"Bullshit," Edward thought as he got in the car. He wasn't worried about Aro, he was worried, that he lied to his mother, and he hated it.

In the meantime, Esme had burned dinner. She thought this was the last thing that could top off a stressful day. She had spent the day running around, arranging what she thought was a grand feast. She'd visited the grocery store and also made a stop to the florist. Of course, when she answered the phone and her son gave her a shitty excuse she almost exploded in fury.

"Edward Anthony Cullen, if you don't drag your bony backside home right now, I will make your life a living hell, I swear," she seethed."You will come home now, you will change your clothes, and you will enjoy dinner, or damn me to hell!" she shouted into the receiver. Without giving her son a chance to reply, she hung up the phone.

Edward stood there frozen, looking at the phone in utter shock.. He couldn't believe what had just happened. That was the first time his mother had ever spoken to him like that – and he had given her lots of opportunities. He grimaced as he put his phone back in his pocket. He was going to dinner and it looked like it was going to be one hell of an evening.

When he arrived home, he met Esme in the driveway. She smiled to him apologetically when he approached her to kiss her cheek.

"Freshen up and don't eat before dinner, please. I'm going to collect Isabella. Your father should be home in a minute," she said. "I'm sorry I yelled," she added.

"It's okay," he replied. "Drive safe."

He walked into the house and ran upstairs, irritated. While showering he dreamt about being somewhere else. He couldn't believe that he was being forced into this spectacle. He could think of a hundred different places that he'd rather be tonight.

Emmett and Rosalie had it so easy. They managed to wriggle out of the dinner thanks to Rosalie's pregnancy. When she wanted to avoid something she usually suddenly fell ill, using her morning sickness as an excuse.

Edward cursed; the day was going to be as bad as he first predicted in the morning.

Instead of playing happy family, Edward could have been with his friends. By now he would be at some bar, well on his way to getting happily hammered, and he knew by the end of the night he would be screwing some girl in the store room.

But no.

The damn stray appeared and Esme expected everyone to jump for joy about it but Edward didn't intend to jump at all.

When he went downstairs he saw that his father had arrived home from work and was already sitting in his study, nursing a small drink. Edward supposed he was making the most of the peace and quiet before his mother arrived home with the stray.

Isabella couldn't find a place for herself all day long. She went to the hairdressing salon nearby and had her hair cut. She then judged all four blouses that she owned, wondering which one she should wear. She considered buying a new one but her common sense took over. She chose the best one and added black skinny jeans. She didn't have to choose between boots since she only owned one pair.

She arrived early at the meeting place. As soon as she realized that she was early, she thought about running away. Yes, she could feel that she was going to chicken out. It would have been easy, Esme couldn't have found her and Isabella could have avoided the area where they'd met.

When she finally decided that she was going to go home, she saw the parked car and Esme waved at her.

"Bella, you're here! I was worried that you wouldn't… Please get in, I'm not allowed to park here." Esme chuckled and Isabella could have sworn that she almost looked tipsy.

Esme pulled away from the curb fast and clasped the steering wheel with her trembling hands. She glanced at Isabella, who looked like a frightened child.

An awkward silence filled the car as they made their way to Esme's house. Neither woman knew what to talk about—Isabella even less so since she had spent so little time with company.

Finally, after what felt like an age, Esme broke the silence. "You look well," she said.

Isabella had nothing to say, so she shrugged.

When the car stopped in the driveway of a big house, Isabella could feel her heart pumping and she wiped her sweaty palms on her pants. She opened the passenger door and got out, encouraged by Esme's nod. The gravel crunched under soles of her cowboy boots and she realized the irreversibility of the situation. She felt her knees go weakand she blushed.

"Let's go."

Isabella noticed, to her surprise, that Esme tried to walk arm in arm with her and she allowed it. Her legs, which were shaking like a leaf, weren't stable enough without support.

They went up the stairs to the front door and Esme opened it with steady motion.

Isabella was a nervous wreck. She didn't know what to do with herself. After a small gesture from Esme that she should enter first, she crossed the doorstep and found herself in the hallway of the Cullen House.

"This is Carlisle, my husband, and Edward, my oldest son. Carlisle and Edward, I have the honor of introducing you Mrs. Isabella Whitlock."

"Hi…" Isabella mumbled quietly.

She could feel two pair of eyes fixed on her face. The blue ones belonged to the man, who was Esme's husband. He looked at her in a friendly manner although Bella could see a hint of curiosity and some concern. The man seemed nice and trustworthy. He had dark hair and very handsome face. The green eyed son stared at her with hatred and disgust. An angry wrinkle cut across his forehead, and jeeringly distorted lips ruined the rest of his perfect features.

Isabella wanted to say something but she couldn't find the words.

"Mrs. Whitlock, it's a pleasure to meet you." Edward's tone told Isabella that it definitely wasn't a pleasure to meet her. "Will Mr. Whitlock be joining us?"

The pain in Isabella's heart was real. She wrapped her arms around herself as she felt the tears forming in her eyes. Esme, anxious, took a hold of Isabella's hand.

"Edward, shame on you," she barked.

"Isabella, please don't pay attention to him. Nice to meet you," Carlisle said. "Would you like a drink before dinner?"

Isabella shook her head and took a step back. She looked at Esme imploringly.

"I can't…I…Thank you for inviting me, but I'd rather go…" she mumbled, desperately trying to stop the tears that wanted to break forth and stream down her gaunt cheeks.

"Absurd. Let's go to the dining room. Carlisle, pour us something to drink, please. Dinner in fifteen minutes." Esme decided to take all upon herself when she saw that her perfectly planned evening started to resemble some ghastly farce.

Edward observed as his mother led the stray into the dining room as his father went for the drinks cabinet.

It was idiotic. Moronic. What had he said that made Esme shout at him like a teenager for the second time today? He just asked about the stray's husband, goddamnit.

Isabella looked as she was going to fall or burst into tears.

Ignoring the stray, Edward walked into the dining room. He fought the urge to groan out loud when he saw that his mother had chosen his seat for him and he would be spending the night sitting across from a homeless person. Fantastic.

He sat down and looked at Isabella. She lowered her head, he saw the curtain of brown hair only. She wrapped her hands around the glass. He noticed that she wasn't going to drink whatever Carlisle's made for her.

Then he thought that he liked her hair..

The stray was beautiful. He chased the thoughts away.

Esme brought the food in and Edward thought that it looked like catering but he kept his mouth shut. His mother wasn't a good cook. To be more precisely, she hated to cook.

Isabella put food on the plate, just a little. Edward thought that she would be hungry and have a good appetite so he was surprised.

"Bella, what did you do yesterday?" Esme tried to establish a conversation..

There was only the rattle of cutlery for a while. Isabella sighed out loud and put her fork back.

"Nothing much really. I just went to the hairdresser." She took a mouthful of her dinner before she continued "Oh, and I bought a cell phone. I figured it was silly not to have one in this day and age. And it could be useful when…" She trailed off at the end, realizing that she might be trapping Esme into contacting her again.

"What? When Esme has some leftovers for you? Or maybe next time she'll take you out for dinner? Or shopping? Then you can really take advantage of her good nature?" Edward leaned over the table, seething at the stray and the fact that she had the audacity to make it known that she would be contacting Esme again.

"Edward, that's enough!" Carlisle said in asharp voice. "Bella's our guest, so if you don't want to respect that, please leave".

Edward wiped his mouth off with a napkin and got up from a chair.

"Thank you for dinner. It was lovely. Mrs. Whitlock, I hope we never meet again," he said and left, slamming the door.

He wondered what to do for awhile. He didn't like that he felt discomfort from his uncultured behavior instead of satisfaction. But on the other hand, he didn't owe Mrs. Whitlock anything. Even if she was beautiful in her own twisted way, she annoyed him. In different circumstances he would have been more than interested. But not now. He decided to go to the bar across the hospital. Hell, the evening was still early.

It seemed to Isabella that she had started to hold her breath three minutes ago when Edward offered her some leftovers. She tried to fight the tears by holding her breath, and that was too much. Too much.

"Bella, I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with him," Esme said. "I wish my younger son, Emmett, were here but his wife is pregnant and…" she stopped talking, when Isabella burst into tears.

Yeah, it was too much. Carlisle offered her his handkerchief politely but she brushed his hand away, got up from the chair, and tightened her hand on her mouth. Esme showed her a way to the bathroom.

She made it to the bathroom just in time. Seconds after she locked the bathroom door behind her, she emptied the contents of her stomach into the toilet. Tonight had been one big disaster. She now had one clear thought in her head – getting out of this house. She washed her face and dried it with toilet paper as she didn't dare to touch the snow-white towel that hung next to the sink. She just stood there for a while as she calmed down, her forehead against the cold glass of the mirror. Once she felt composed enough, she returned to the dining room.

After telling Esme that she felt a little ill, she asked if Esme could drive her home. Carlisle said goodbye to her and for a moment she thought that he looked like he wanted to hug her.

They drove in silence. Isabella said the address to Esme, and then she turned to look through the window.

When they parked, Isabella took a risk and looked at Esme. The woman was sad and anxious. It seemed like she wanted to say something but she was biting her lips like Bella often did. Isabella shook her head and reached into her pocket. She pulled the creased piece of paper with the telephone number out and gave it to Esme. Esme smiled as if the piece of paper was the best Christmas gift ever and nodded.

Isabella went into her apartment. She didn't undress and she didn't even turn the lights on. She sat on the floor against the bed. She didn't think. She didn't cry. She just sat there.

When she finally got up and started to walk into the bathroom, she heard someone knock on the door.


	5. The Differences

After driving Isabella home, Esme headed straight back to the Cullen house. Isabella's number burned a hole in Esme's pocket on the journey home. Every once in a while she touched the paper just to make sure it was still there. It was the substantial proof that Isabella was real and that she wanted to stay in touch.

Dinner didn't go as planned. As Esme replayed tonight's events she felt nothing but embarrassment and shame. She found Edward's behavior so unlike him and she viewed his boorishness and uncultured acts toward Isabella as an attack on herself. She knew Edward wasn't angry at Isabella—he was angry at Esme because she dared to mention Alice.

Beautiful, dear Alice.

He attacked an innocent girl because he didn't dare to attack his own mother. The issue of Alice always seemed to throw him off balance. Esme sighed out loud. Mothers always found ways to justify their children, right?

Once home, she went straight for Carlisle's study where she knew he would be thinking. She knocked lightly on the door and went in even though she was met with silence. She found Carlisle sitting on the sofa with a drink in his hand, his eyes closed, and his head reclined. The only light in the room was coming from the small fire, making the shadows appear to dance across the walls. Esme sat down next to Carlisle and he opened his eyes slowly to meet Esme's gaze, his eyes full of concern. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her gently.

"I'm worried about you," he said. "Are you ok?"

Esme didn't answer, she shook her head instead. They sat in silence for a while, looking at the multicolored flames in the fireplace.

"I checked her out," Carlisle whispered.

Esme started and looked at her husband like she didn't know who and what he was talking about. Confusion and unanswered questions flashed In her eyes. She felt her heart go heavy in fear as her breath quickened.

"Who?" she asked, even though she knew the answer.

"Isabella," Carlisle answered.

Esme frowned and took a deep breath. She felt like she could burst. As she opened her mouth to say something, Carlisle raised his hands up in defense. He looked into her eyes and smiled sadly.

"It's not like that, I swear. I didn't do this…that way. I just…" Carlisle took a deep breath before carrying on. "Look, I liked her and I was curious as to why she's acting…like that. Haven't you noticed how she acted when Edward mentioned her husband? Or when she burst into tears when you told her about Rosalie and her pregnancy?" he asked.

"I know, I know. I just…" Esme had absolutely no idea what to say. She'd noticed that Isabella struggled with her personal pain but she didn't dare to mention it directly.

"I didn't do anything terrible. I didn't hire anyone, for Christ's sake. Don't look at me like that. I googled her."

"Googled?" Esme was surprised by the simplicity of this solution.

"Yes," Carlisle answered as he combed his hair with his hand—a habit that indicated his nervousness— a trait that Esme noticed had been passed to Edward.

"What do you know? Is she sick? Is she a victim? A drug addict?" Esme asked impatiently.

"Esme, honey…"

"What do you know?" Esme grabbed her husband sleeve and pulled at it hard.

"Not much. I found a few articles from small local newspapers, mostly from Galveston Daily News. They contained information about her husband, she was just mentioned in passing," Carlisle explained.

"Her husband?" Esme asked, confused.

"Yes. The articles I found were all about his funeral."

xxx

Isabella jumped at the sound of someone knocking. Ąt first she thought it was Esme but she didn't know which apartment was hers. If it was her, then why? Who else could be here? The janitor? No, it was too late for him.

The knocking repeated. This time more aggressive.

Isabella tiptoed towards the door and she stood still for a while, listening. Her instinct for self-preservation was dead because she turned the key in the lock and opened the door. When her eyes found the visitor she felt the blood drain from her face. She took a step back and raised her hands to her mouth.

"Hello, sugar. Aren't you gonna invite me in?" the visitor leaned against the wooden doorframe. He was looking at her through squinted eyes. His lips was distorted in the strange smirk as if he was pleased with himself and completely at ease.

"Jasper? What…What are you doing here?" Isabella asked. Her voice sounded detached, almost unnatural. It only took her a few seconds to get a grip on herself. But then there was a buzzing, like there was a problem with her hearing. Then she started seeing black dots.

Something was wrong.

She forgot to breathe, just like she did this evening at Esme's.

"Isabella, look at me. Breathe. Calm the fuck down, I won't hurt you." Jasper crossed the doorstep, grabbed her arms and shook her firmly.

He was looking at her in disbelief, but without emotions—he looked at her like he was looking at some scientific experiment.

Isabella opened her eyes and freed herself from Jasper's grip. She walked to the sofa and sat down. She risked a look at Jasper, who was towering before her. He looked different than he had looked before when she'd last seen him. God, when was that? She counted in her mind. A year and a half ago. His blond hair was longer now, hanging to his jaw line, curling slightly. His silhouette seemed to be higher and heavier. Isabella realized at last what the reason was for his different look. There was no trace of smile on his face. And Jasper always smiled. Always. And his eyes? Isabella glanced furtively. It was a mistake.

Peter.

Oh God, Peter.

"I'm not Peter. Have you lost your mind?"

Jasper's eyes flashed with irritation and concern, the very first emotion that Isabella had seen. He was looking at Isabella and his mind boggled at how she'd spruced herself down this past year. He saw the shadow of Isabella Whitlock, of the woman that had been loved by whole fucking town. The woman who had been known as whole-hearted and witty. The woman that had been beautiful and proud. The woman his brother was infatuated with. The woman that his brother loved more than anything in the world.

The woman, who ruined it all.

Isabella, surprised and confused, realized, that she must have spoken her thoughts out loud. She flushed and cursed. Then she straightened herself, feeling the sudden wave of anger.

"How the hell did you find me?" Her hoarse voice cut through the silence.

Jasper laughed bitterly, but there was some pride in his laugh. He pushed the well-worn armchair closer until he sat across from Isabella. They were separated only by the small table. The man leaned his elbows on his thighs and turned toward her. His look was cold and his face blank.

Isabella reached under the table to take the pack of cigarettes in sudden anxiety. She took one, and her motions were nervous when she couldn't find a lighter.

'Here," Jasper reached into his jeans pocket and passed her a light.

Always such a Southern gentleman. "The genes don't lie," she thought.

"Thanks." Isabella inhaled deeply, holding back the coughing fit with her strong will. "I asked earlier and you didn't answer. How did you find me?"

"It was rather easy and took my man a little over a week," Jasper answered, spreading out in the armchair comfortably. "You rented or bought the flat with your own name and the day before yesterday you entered into agreement with AT&T. Stupid move for someone who wants to remain undercover. I would use the pre-paid. But I've known your location for some time."

"Why now? Why you did you decide to find me now? Why not a year ago?" Isabella asked. She couldn't understand his sudden interest. She flicked the ash from the cigarette on the table.

"Don't you have an ashtray?" Jasper furrowed his eyebrows, disgusted.

"No, I don't. I rarely smoke," Isabella answered, angry at herself for explaining. "It's not your business".

Jasper ignored her. He stood up a little from the armchair and pushed a small plate nearer Isabella. He sat down again and titled his head.

"Let's say that I was…busy this year," he said. "Besides, I promised Charlotte that I'd find you and I keep my promises—unlike you, Isabella."

"Charlotte?" Isabella gasped out loud. "You didn't tell her, where I was? Is she here with you? Tell me she isn't. Please tell me, that…" Her words were rushed together as the name from her past caused her to panic.

"Isabella. Isabella!" Jasper yelled to cut through her pleas. "She's not here."

The thought of Charlotte made Isabella freeze like a cold air in Forks. Their relationship was always tense. Proud, haughty Charlotte always stated that Isabella was a gold-digger, that she only wanted the old money of the Whitlock family. Into the row on Isabella's shortcomings, Charlotte concluded that Isabella was northern, that she could stand up to her husband, and that she could win Peter over to her side. Besides, Isabella made the decision that she and Peter move away to the far side of the state. Charlotte never forgave her daughter-in-law. Isabella knew it so well.

She put out the cigarette and composed herself before she looked at Jasper.

"What do you want?" she asked.


	6. The Fall of the House of Whitlock

Isabella could feel her body tense as she waited for Jasper to speak. She had absolutely no idea what he wanted from her—was it something to do with Charlotte? That didn't even bear thinking about. Or was it something more? She kept glancing at Jasper, but refused to fully meet his eyes. She grew more anxious as the seconds passed. He was sitting on the armchair completely relaxed, observing her with his cold, dead, blue eyes.

The silence was tense and unbearable.

Isabella sighed loudly, "Are you going to say something?"

Jasper tilted his head and smiled, but his smile didn't resemble his old one. It was ominous and scary.

"What do I want?" Jasper chuckled, seeming to jeer at her. "Well, sugar, for starters I want some answers."

He spread out on the armchair, stretching his long legs. Isabella focused her attention on the black leather of his boots shining in artificial light. She noticed a few cracks in them, but his black cowboy boots were perfect in contrast to her own pair.

As she continued to scrutinise his boots, she came to the conclusion that Jasper was outdoing her in everything. Everyone was outdoing her. For the second time that week she realised just how much of a wreck she really was. Her eyes began to glass over with unshed tears and she had to blink several times to stop them from spilling. She refused to let Jasper see how weak she was. Her hands were trembling hard so she clasped her fingers together, squeezing them tightly in an attempt to control one aspect of her appearance.

"Look at yourself, Isabella. Look how pathetic you are." Jasper scoffed at her and shook his head, a leering smile on his face. "You look like drug addict, living here in this shithole. And where are your manners? You didn't even offer me a drink."

Jasper stopped his speech to take a look around. He shrugged and looked back at Isabella sitting across him. The tears in her eyes finally spilled over and she slumped in the chair, the knuckles of her clasped fingers whitening under the pressure.

"What have you done with the money from selling Peter's house?" he asked.

Isabella started like she'd been woken from a deep sleep.

"What?" she said, her voice still hoarse. She blinked, not understanding the question.

"What have you done with the money? The house in Galveston was worth a shitload of cash. You don't own this place, do you?"

"I rent it." Isabella could feel tears rolling down her cheeks, but she didn't try to wipe them.

"You rent it?" Jasper laughed out loud. "Really Isabella, it's getting interesting, isn't it?"

The man got serious then and spoke with a sharp, commanding voice: "Where is the money?"

"The mo-money was mine, why are you asking me about it?" Isabella stuttered in her attempt at defence, but she wiped her tears and straightened.

Jasper leaned toward her. He furrowed his brows and clenched his fists.

"Don't piss me off, Isabella. The money wasn't yours. You have sold the possessions of my brother's life. It was his money. The blood and sweat of Peter. Quit playing around and answer my fucking question!" He raised his voice.

Jasper's fist landed on the table hard and the small plate jumped with a loud cling. Isabella froze, gasping.

"Speak!" he barked.

"I … I've donated it." Isabella lowered her head, afraid of his reaction.

"What the fuck? You've donated it?" Jasper widened his eyes in surprise. "You've donated it?" he repeated, as if not understanding her absurd answer.

"Yes. I've donated it," Isabella confirmed.

Jasper sighed and brushed his blonde curls out of his face.

"Who did you donate it to?" he demanded.

"To the Children of Fallen Soldiers Relief Fund. They support the widows and orphans," she recited without breath. Bella was now sobbing, tears running down her face, and her nose had started to run.

"Oh really? Wow, that must have been one hell of an event—young widow of Sergeant Peter Whitlock donating all his money to the foundation. Did you feel good being in the spotlight?" he asked, angry and confused.

"The donation was anonymous." She answered automatically.

The quicker I answer the sooner he'll leave me alone.

"Yeah, that's why we haven't heard about it." He nodded. "Did you want to appease your guilt? Did you want to feel better after Peter's death, which was your fault? After you broke everything he was and everything he had? After you ruined the family?" He was breathing heavily, spitting the words out in an angry torrent.

The merciless series of Jasper's questions bowled her over. She cried out loud, hiding her face in her palms.

"You stupid bitch," Jasper hissed.

Isabella didn't hear it. She could hear only her own cries and the roar of her heart in her ears

It's my fault.

It's my fault.

She wailed, swaying like abandoned child.

I've ruined it all.

"Isabella!" The sharp voice of Jasper was muffled. "Isabella! I haven't finished yet, so stop it, leave your cries to later."

She raised her head and saw that Jasper's face was red and angry.

"You are repulsive, self-centered scum, Isabella," Jasper drawled through clenched teeth. "Did it never occur to you how Charlotte must have felt when she had to bury her son alone?" He breathed in and continued. "She was all alone, because her oldest son was in a hospital in Iraq, and her daughter-in-law didn't even bother to come to the funeral. The funeral of her own husband."

Isabella's eyes were red and puffy, sore from crying, but she tried to look at Jasper as he spoke to her. At his harsh words her eyes widened in shock; Jasper was full of so much hate.

"You weren't there? You didn't go to Peter's funeral either?" she asked quietly.

"No."

Jasper pulled up the sleeves of his black shirt and Isabella noticed the scars covering his forearms. He then pushed his hair to the side so she could see another. It marked his cheek, near his ear. Isabella groaned and raised her hands to her mouth.

"What happened?" she asked, scared.

"I got permission to go to Peter's funeral, but the convoy was attacked. It was burned pretty bad." Jasper's face was again devoid of emotion. "Fucking coincidence."

"Oh Jasper, I'm so, so…"

Isabella couldn't finish her sentence. Jasper stopped her with sudden movement of his hand.

"Spare me your fake sympathy. I don't need it," he spat at her. "Where were you?"

Isabella thought she would faint. The blood flowed away from her face, her lips, as white as snow, opened and closed over and over, not making a sound.

"Answer me." Jasper raised his voice, his muscles tensed.

"I was in a hospital," she whispered slowly.

"Why? Did you have a nervous breakdown?" Jasper yelled. "You couldn't take the responsibility?"

"No…" Isabella tried to reply. "It wasn't like that."

"Couldn't you think about someone else for once? Not about yourself? Couldn't you get a grip for once and be there for your parents-in-law?" Jasper screamed louder and louder. "You chose to play mournful widow that can't attend the funeral, because it's too much for her!"

"No!" Isabella's scream was louder than Jasper's. "I was fucking pregnant!"

She hid her head in her forearms, breathing loudly as the painful memories crashed over her.

"You were ... Fuck!"

Isabella heard the sound of breaking glass and a crash as her table overturned and hit the wall under the window. Before she managed to open her eyes, she could feel the movement of the air and fingers gripping her hair. A hard tug made her raise her head and look at the man who was leaning above her and looking at her with a murderous stare.

"God knows only how badly I want to hit you right now, Isabella, but my mother taught me better," he whispered. "Now listen to me. You ruined the family. You took Peter away from us. You had an abor…" he glanced at her stomach, swallowed and gripped her hair harder. "You are an unworthy piece of shit Isabella. Look at me."

She didn't dare to move. She held her breath again.

"You are useless. You know, Peter called me and said that he was going to reenlist, just because you were going through some problems. He said that he would give you some time to think, that he would give you the space. You bitch," he said, spitting through his teeth. "You are a poison. But you're a Whitlock now. I promised my brother I would take care of you, just in case. And I will. Like I said, I keep my word."

He released her and straightened.

"Pack your things," he ordered.


	7. The Promises

After Jasper had finished his speech and he had said everything he came to say, he sat back in Isabella's old armchair. He leaned back to make himself comfortable, crossed his legs, and lit a cigarette. He thought back over the talk he had just had with Isabella—it definitely didn't go as planned. Yes, he wanted to learn some things he was curious about—along with the rest of his family. And although he didn't want to, he needed to inform his dead brother's wife that she was now his responsibility, solely due to Peter's wish.

Before arriving at Isabella's, he had planned how their meeting would go. He was to be in control, she would listen, and that would be the end of it.

He didn't think that he would lose his self-control.

Jasper Whitlock was this kind of man who likes everything planned, who anticipated every single step—the scenarios of future events appeared in his head and the unpredictable fates didn't stand a chance with him. He was a perfect strategist. That's why his career in the army was quick and brilliant; his superiors admired his perspicacity and calmness, the rightness of making decisions.

But today, with Isabella, his composure was damned to hell.

Jasper inhaled the smoke deeply as he came to the conclusion that he had developed a tendency to become annoyed and irritated easier than he ever had before, and his anger now exploded with no reason. He shrugged at the thought—after all, last month wasn't a good month for him.

He glanced at Isabella and noted, without surprise, that she was sitting in the same place, looking forward, and completely still.

Ignoring the silent woman in the room, he calmly finished his cigarette, stood up, and walked through to the kitchen to throw it in the trash. As he entered the room again, he approached the woman who had stopped crying and now stared at him. Jasper was more than a bit perturbed as he looked at her—she looked like a puppet waiting on him, the puppet master, to pull her strings.

"Isabella, I asked you to do something," he reminded her.

Isabella blinked slowly and looked at Jasper, her empty eyes reminding him of a doll.

"You are so wrong," she whispered.

"I'm trying to be patient here. Could you just go and pack up your stuff?" Jasper said calmly, promising to himself that he would try to keep a hold of his nerves. He came back to the armchair and lit another cigarette.

I could do with some whisky, he thought.

"No," Isabella answered.

She still looked at him and her eyes seemed to be made of glass with no hint of reflection.

"Being stubborn won't do you any good Isabella, I assure you," Jasper hissed. "Stop talking and start thinking about what you want to take with you, please." He said please, but there was nothing polite about the way he asked. It wasn't a question; he was deadly and he was ordering her.

"No," she repeated. "I'm not going anywhere."

Jasper sighed, angry again. He assumed that she would be stubborn, but he thought that everything would be better, easier. He couldn't, damn it, he just couldn't leave her behind. He promised to Peter. He promised to his mother. He wanted to take care of her; her deplorable condition made him feel sympathy. Jesus Christ, if Peter could see her…

Fucking everything is amiss.

In a sudden feeling of desperation, Jasper stood abruptly and approached her. Isabella started in surprise and covered herself with her hands as if she was expecting a blow.

Jasper furrowed his eyebrows and kneeled in front of her.

"Isabella, stop it. I said I won't hurt you," he drawled, disgusted that she would even think such a thing.

Isabella lowered her hands slowly and fixed her eyes on the wooden floor next to Jasper's knees.

"Let's start over," he said quietly. "Please explain, why do you want to stay here?"

"Why should I go with you?" she answered rudely.

Jasper felt his patience running out but he set his teeth and tried to be calm.

"I told you before," he said slowly as he was talking to a little child. "I promised Peter that I would take care of you."

"You hate me," she stated.

Jasper backed off slightly; the intense truth of this simple statement was too distinct to negate courteously. He sighed out loud and pondered over Isabella's words. Did he hate her?

Yes, he did. He could easily imagine killing her; he could almost feel the pulse on her neck under his fingers as he was choking her. Or maybe, it would be better to beat her to oblivion and leave her to die on the wet floor in the basement. Jasper tilted his head. He felt an almost perverted pleasure from imagining the cruel ways to annihilate Peter's wife. Peter died from a bullet and that way would be too merciful for her.

But he suddenly felt ashamed of his thoughts. He looked at Isabella, his eyes darkened from anger. He came to conclusion that she made him feel so sorry for her that he wanted to kill her. He wanted to take care of her not only because he had promised to Peter, but because he wanted it himself. That mix of contrary feelings was so ridiculous and he blinked quickly and lowered his head.

"You hate me, its ok," Isabella said. "You shouldn't give a damn about the promise. Leave me the hell alone."

Jasper raised his head and shook it in negation. He looked her in the eye, inhaled and stood up.

"You know that I can't do this. I don't want to do this," he said. "This is out of the question. We need to reach an agreement," Jasper sighed and continued. "Why do you want to stay here so badly? Be honest. What keeps you here?"

Isabella bit her lip. She could choose telling the truth or lie. Lying to Jasper didn't make a sense and the truth seemed to be so unbelievable, so she decided to tell it.

"I chose this city accidentally. I bought the bus ticket to Seattle, but I got off here," she said shyly and shrugged. "I want to stay here, in Denver."

Jasper didn't reply. The small living room let him to make a few steps only and he approached the window in a second. He picked up the table that he'd overturned before and placed it next to the window. He glanced at the broken pieces of the plate and sighed. He looked through the window and saw the place, where he has been standing two days ago, observing Isabella's house. He remembered how he had chickened out that evening, how he'd called Charlotte and said that he didn't have the guts to meet Isabella face to face - the women that he blamed for the tragedy of his family.

"Whitlock & Whitlock has its representative offices all around the country. You want to stay here, we stay," he said, still looking through the window.

Isabella started, Jasper statement surprised her and she wondered what it would mean. She shook her head. She decided to dispel her doubts and ask him about it, but the man forestalled her before she managed to open her mouth.

"I'm the CEO of the company now, Charlotte and Peter Sr. retired long time ago," he said. He turned over to face her. "I have to do something, since I ended my military career."

Isabella grimaced. The resignation of the military service didn't fit Jasper. Hell, it didn't fit Peter either. She thought with empathy that it had cost Jasper a lot and she knew that was one of the reasons he was the way he was.

Embittered, nervous and violent.

She tried to get up, but her legs were stubborn.

I'm so tired, she thought. She dreamt about lying down and getting some sleep, she wanted this evening to finish. She wondered what time it was…it seemed to her that centuries had passed since she opened the door for Peter's brother.

"I don't want to be a burden," she said with difficulty. "I can manage. I will call you from time to time."

Jasper exploded with laughter.

"I can see how you well manage," he said, amused. "You don't believe it yourself, do you? I won't change my mind," he added.

The man looked at Isabella and noticed that she wasn't convinced. It's no use, he thought. I can't drag her with me by force, kicking and screaming, even if that would be effective…

He realized that he needed a strategy to achieve his purpose. He wasn't the person who gives up.

"Isabella, this is Peter's wish. I promised him that no matter what happened you wouldn't be all alone, that I would take care of you." He said calmly, his voice full of authority. "You owe him after everything you did to him."

Isabella could feel the tears forming again so she lowered her head.

Jasper raised his eyebrow and was silent for awhile. He still had an ace up his sleeve.

"But if you refuse, I will understand. I will call Charlotte and tell her that I tried," he added.

"I agree," Isabella whispered.

Score.

"You agree to what?" Jasper was merciless.

"I'll go with you."

The man smiled, triumphant, even if he knew that he played well with her guilt and her fear of Charlotte.

"You want to stay in Denver, its ok. We will use the company apartment today, I will think about something different tomorrow. Go pack your bag."

Isabella nodded and got up, defeated.

"Isabella?"

She risked a look at Jasper. He reminded her in that particular moment of the boy she'd met years ago. His features softened, and there was a shadow of smile on his lips, the shadow of real smile.

"Thank you," he said softly.


	8. The Stumbles

Fuck.

Edward cursed as he slipped on the wet floor of the hospital before miraculously catching his balance. Two young nurses that were passing by giggled at the sight. It wasn't every day they saw Dr. Cullen fluttering his hands and making uncoordinated but necessary movements.

"Very fucking funny," Edward thought, pissed off.

As soon as he felt that he had regained his balance, he picked up his bag from the floor. During his fight with gravity it had slipped from his hand.

He brushed his unruly hair out of his eyes and hastily made his way to the exit.

He'd just finished a 36 hour shift. Normally, he managed to rest his eyes for a short time, but during this shift he'd barely had time to grab a coffee, never mind sleep. Now he was dreaming of a huge breakfast and a dozen or so hours of uninterrupted sleep.

He was almost there. All he had to do was get in the car and go home. Edward wondered for a second if he should call Esme and ask her to prepare breakfast for him, but decided against it. After all, it was still only seven in the morning, and surely Esme was still sleeping. The last thing he wanted was to listen to her meditations and worries. His mother was hard to stand lately, and the things had only gotten worse overthe few last weeks.

Edward walked out of the main entrance of Denver Health and headed towards his car that was parked nearby. He raised his eyes from the grey asphalt of the sidewalk and couldn't believe what he saw.

The damned stray was getting out of a black car that was parked in a prohibited place. Edward's eyes widened, his heart beating faster, as he took in the car—a limited anniversary edition of a Shelby Cobra. A very uncommon site in these places. And not only that—there was a man opening the passenger door for her.

The man's face, along with his posture, was sending a clear non-verbal message: don't fuck with me. He was muscular but slender, tall—taller than Edward, and dressed up like a modern cowboy, boots and all. Edward took a look around but there was no escape. The woman looked straight at him.

Damned stray, repeated Edward in his thoughts. It had been a month since Esme went crazy. And it was because of Bella. And apparently Bella just found herself another naïve person whom she was trying to use, so Edward's mother was unwanted now.

Edward came to the conclusion that this man was the reason why every single one of Esme's attempt to contact Mrs. Whitlock was unsuccessful.

Every time Esme had called her, the phone would simply go to voicemail. Worried that something was seriously wrong, Esme had gone to Isabella's apartment only to be told by the Janitor that she had moved—but was still paying rent. Carlisle, despite having the patience of a saint, was extremely worried.

Edward had no option and he glanced at Isabella. She looked much better than last time. Her clothes weren't too large anymore—one could guess that she had been eating better meals. Her hair—that he had liked even if he wouldn't admit it—was even more beautiful; it was falling down her shoulders in slightly curled, shiny waves. He glimpsed t her face and hissed out a breath.

What the actual fuck?

The left side of her face was disfigured by purple and violet bruise that looked fresh. It was spreading from her cheekbone to her superciliary ridge. From Edward's distance the ridge looked like split open deeply and it was screaming for stitches.

Edward furrowed his eyebrows. He had no idea what to do or how to behave. He didn't care for Isabella, but on the other hand he was wholeheartedly against any forms of violence—especially towards women. He didn't know how he was supposed to react, he didn't know if he had the right to do so.

"Good morning, Edward," Isabella said shyly as Edward approached them. She looked to the ground, her cheeks flushing in embarrassment as she remembered their last meeting. She didn't even know if she could talk to him.

"Isabella," Edward nodded his head, confused and lost.

The man that was accompanying Isabella slammed the car's door and approached her in hasty pace. He took a short and sharp look at Edward as he stepped one jump ahead in front of Isabella.

Edward decided to ignore him and said to Mrs. Whitlock, "How are you, Isabella?"

His voice was unsure. His eyes were studying her face and the question reflected in his eyes spoke for itself.

"I'm fine," she answered quietly. She touched her cheek and bit her lip. "I had a little… accident."

She looked at her companion and pointed him to Edward with her shaking hand, sighing.

"Jasper, meet Edward Cullen. Edward, this is my…" she hesitated, but at the same time the man, dressed in black reached out his hand in greeting.

"Jasper Whitlock," he said.

Edward reached out quickly and muttered his own name, surprised. The handshake that Mr. Whitlock bestowed him was certainly too hard.

The silence lasted for long seconds before Jasper grabbed Isabella's elbow. "We should go," he said with authority and looked at her meaningfully.

"Yes, you're right," she said obediently. "See you, Edward."

"See you, Isabella," his response was automatic, as he observed Jasper leadingIsabella towards the hospital entrance.

He stood there for a while trying to process what had happened until he blinked and went to his car.

When he arrived home, he could not make sense of what he saw so he pushed it to the back of his mind. He took off his jacket and threw it on the table in the hall. He walked towards the kitchen where he could hear his parents talking.

Esme was sitting in the kitchen with her elbows resting on the table, her face hidden in her palms. Carlisle was standing behind her and stroking her back in calming movements. Edward looked at his father in question. Carlisle aimed his eyes on the calendar that was hanging on the kitchen wall. Edward read the date, but he couldn't recognize it.

For a moment.

17th of April. 17th of April…

"How do you feel, mom?" he asked, his voice dry.

Esme raised her head. Hereyes were red and puffy, a sure sign that she had been crying. There was a shadow of a smile on her lips and she reached out her hands to Edward and Carlisle laid his on top of their clasped hands. The three of them sat like that for some time, with only the clock ticking and the coffee express humming to break the silence.

"Breakfast?" Esme offered finally.

Edward nodded gratefully. Esme stood up and went towards the fridge as Carlisle reached to grab the newspaper that was placed on the table.

Edward thought that he couldn't stand this silence anymore, the silence that was so unreal for this house, for this family. He decided to break it. Besides he intended to divert Esme's attention from the damned date.

"I met the st.. your Isabella today," he said quietly.

Time stopped. It congealed like aspic. Then Edward heard the sound of breaking glass; Esme had dropped the bowl. She quickly turned, her eyes finding Edward's immediately. Edward waited for some questions, for some emotions to come, but Esme was only looking at him.

"I met her today in front of the hospital," he stated precisely as he concluded that his mother wanted this.

Esme didn't say a word.

"Esme, honey?" Carlisle was worried and he came to her.

She blinked and looked more sober as he touched her arm.

"What's wrong with her?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Tell us everything."

"There's not much to tell," Edward answered. "I was going home and met her in the parking area. I think she needed the ambulatory treatment."

"What?" Esme made a step back.

"The superciliary ridge was split open and huge, ugly bruise on her cheek," Edward explained professionally, his voice with no emotions.

"My God, Carlisle, someone hurt her!" Esme cried, covering her lips with her palms. Then she furrowed her eyebrows and looked at Edward, the accusation in her eyes. "You didn't help her? How could you leave her there, all alone?"

Edward turned his head aside and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Mom…" he started to speak, but Esme cut him off.

"How could you?" she cried again.

Edward started to regret that he opened his mouth. "It was a mistake, I'd better to leave it alone," he thought.

"She was not alone, okay?" he yelled.

He rubbed his face with his hands and looked at Esme. She was standing exactly in the same place with her arms raised, completely still.

"She was not alone," he repeated. "She was with her husband."

Esme widened her eyes and glanced at Carlisle who looked like throw off balance. Then she looked back at Edward.

"With her husband?" she asked, the amazement and the fright in her voice.

"Yes. He drove her there and they went inside together," he confirmed.

"But Edward, her husband is dead," Esme said slowly.

Edward looked at Carlisle, confused, and his father nodded his head, confirming Esme's words.

"Peter Whitlock died in Iraq in February last year," Carlisle said confidently. "We checked it out."

Edward looked between his parents, confusion written all over his face.

"Then, who the hell-" he cut himself off. "The man she was with said his name was Jasper," Edward wondered out loud as he felt on his hand the memory of hard, too hard Jasper's handshake.

Suddenly he lowered his head. He remembered his own words that he had spoken to Isabella the time they met, just before the awkward dinner.

"Will Mr. Whitlock be joining us?"

Fuck.

Xxx

Isabella didn't allow the nurse to anaesthetize her before stitching her cut.

When she stepped out from behind the curtained area of the emergency room, she saw that Jasper was standing in the hall and looking through the window. After the last couple of weeks she had learned to recognize his moods. She was looking at his posture from behind and she already knew that he was irritated and impatient. She walked closer to him and stopped two steps behind.

"Jasper?"

Without saying a word, the man turned and pointed at the exit. He refused to meet her eyes, but she saw it in his face—he was irritated and angry. She could see it in his suddenly sharp features, in the wrinkle between his eyebrows and tensed jaw line. His darkened eyes were looking ahead as she didn't deserve attention, as she didn't deserve a glance.

He didn't speak to her. The drive home was a nightmare; the tense silence was tight as it pleaded to be cut with a knife. When they arrived home, Isabella got out the car, not bothering to wait for Jasper to open her door. She went inside the house, typing in the security code, and took a deep breath. She planned to take two Tylenols and go to bed because the stitches were bothering her. When she was half way up the stairs, leading to her room, she froze.

The sharp, angry voice left her no choice.

"Come back downstairs, Isabella. We need to talk."


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 8

The Whiskey

Isabella entered the kitchen as slowly as she could. She wasn't looking forward to this and was eager to put it off, unsure of the reason Jasper wanted to talk to her. Her head was already throbbing and she started to feel unwell.

She glanced at Jasper. He was sitting by the table, his muscles tense. His eyes were fixed on the abandoned, almost empty bottle of Jack Daniels that was on the table. There was two glasses next to the bottle, one of them half-full with the remainder of the amber liquid, the other clean and empty.

"Sit down," Jasper barked.

Isabella hesitated. She started towards the seat, but decided to stay in her current place.

"I said sit down," Jasper repeated firmly.

Isabella pulled the chair out reluctantly and sat down across from him as she looked at him curiously. He still didn't honor her with one single glance, his gaze focused on the bottle of whiskey. After few moments he grabbed it and poured the rest of the alcohol into two glasses.

Isabella swallowed.

Still not looking at her, he sighed and moved his attention to the label on the bottle that he held in his hand.

"Jack Daniels Whiskey. Its silky smooth, but sometimes its shows its rough face," he said. "Do you know that Jack Daniels real name was Jasper Newton Daniel? Maybe that's why I like it so much."

Isabella blinked. She didn't have any idea where he was heading with this. She remained quiet, sitting in her chair, her features giving away her total bewilderment.

"Jasper Daniel wanted his whiskey to be sold straight from the barrels. He changed his mind in 1895. That is when for the first time Jack's whiskey went to the characteristic squared bottle," he continued.

The man clasped the bottle harder.

"Drink," he said. It wasn't a question.

Isabella widened her eyes, surprised. The thought about the bittersweet liquid made her desire to vomit morph into an urgent necessity.

She shook her head.

"What's wrong, Isabella? Did you suddenly lose your willingness for whiskey?"

Isabella shrugged.

"I said drink," Jasper said quietly. "I'll pour it down your throat if I have to."

Isabella clasped her fingers round the glass and chanced a look at him, hoping he would change his mind.

He raised his eyebrow. His blue eyes colder than ever, the whole intensity of the very first glance that he'd offered her made her shiver.

She lifted her glass. The smell was terrible and the saliva flowed through her mouth. Jasper was still looking at her with anticipation.

She took a sip of alcohol and choked instantly. The drops of whiskey sprayed in the air, creating the yellowish mist that settled down the table slowly.

Jasper sat back in his chair, his face free of emotion.

"Don't you like it? Is the taste bad?" He asked derisively.

Isabella didn't answer. She made the move to stand up and leave, but Jasper stopped her with his look.

"It's weird that you don't like it," he said calmly. "I could have sworn that yesterday you'd liked it a lot. What the fuck is wrong with you? I leave the town for one single day, I come back at night, and here you are drunk as a fucking skunk," he hissed, his composure now lost.

Isabella looked to the side.

"For God's sake, you almost drank the bottle down!"

Jasper sighed and shook his head.

"What's wrong? For the last month you seemed to be coming alive. You were doing something, you were even furnishing the house! What's changed?" His eyes are full of curiosity.

Isabella remained silent. She felt shame and embarrassment, the dull pain in her skull and the taste of whiskey on her tongue were the terrible mix that didn't let her gather her thoughts.

"Answer me, damn it! Why?" Jasper lost his patience.

He took a swing and with one, steady move smashed the bottle into pieces on the wall.

Isabella flinched as the glass shattered and bit her lip nervously. She looked at him and felt the tears in her eyes. She mopped them with the back of her palm and spat the answer out.

"I felt so alone."

She lowered her head and began to crumple the edge of her blouse with her fingers. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

Jasper sighed again and rubbed his face with his palms.

The thick, ominous silence became too much for Isabella. She knew that nothing good come from it.

"I thought-" she added shyly." I thought that you wouldn't be back."

"Jesus Christ, Bella-" Jasper gasped.

He thought about the last evening.

When he arrived home, Isabella was completely drunk. She heard him opening the door and she made her clumsy attempt to flee. He called her name, making her run even faster, causing her to stumble and hit her head on the marble banister pretty hard. It didn't slow her down – she kept going and when he reached the first floor he heard the key turning in the door of her room as she locked herself in. He saw the bloody trace on the banister; he brushed it with his finger. He felt nauseous; the sight or smell of the blood never bothered him so he was unsure as to why he suddenly felt ill.

He continued to knock on her door well into the night, without any response. He gave up, retiring to his room, but leaving his door slightly open so he knew when she reappeared.

She resurfaced in the early morning, after clearly falling asleep in her clothes. She wore the same outfit as the day before, but they were badly wrinkled and her hair was a mess, piled on top of her head. As he heard her moving about in the hall, he approached her, his eyes focusing on her wound. The sight of the wound made his skin crawl, but not for long. The wave of anger flushed his veins before he composed himself.

"Good morning, Isabella. Take a shower, we're leaving to hospital in half an hour," he ordered. "You need help with the shower?"

"No," she whispered, her voice hoarse.

"Very well," Jasper raised his chin. His silhouette straight, his hands clasped behind his back – one could say that he was in battle field, ordering his companion. "Meet you downstairs in thirty minutes."

"I'm sorry," Isabella repeated.

Jasper lowered his hands and looked at her. He could feel the irresistible urge to come near her and hug her, but he suppressed it quickly.

"No, Isabella. I'm the one who should be sorry," he said trenchantly. "I should have called you, I should have let you know," he added.

Isabella raised her head and looked at him. His face was worried, he seemed to fight with himself, he wanted to say something, but he inhaled deeply instead. Isabella made a poor attempt to smile at him.

"Who was that man we met near the hospital?" Jasper asked out of sudden, fixing his eyes in hers.

Isabella could feel her blush and furrowed her eyebrows. She thought about the answer for some time and Jasper remained silent, not interfering or rushing her.

"He's Esme's son," she said.

"And who the hell is Esme?" Jasper couldn't comprehend Isabella's enigmatic reply.

"Esme Cullen is my acquaintance. The only acquaintance in Denver that I have," Isabella explained, choosing her words carefully. "She invited me to dinner, and then I met Edward. He's a doctor, like his father," she added quickly.

"She invited you to her house?"

"Yes," Isabella answered shyly.

Jasper didn't say a word. He got up and went round the table to stand behind her. Isabella could feel her muscles tensing; that irrational reaction made her nervous. She grabbed the front of her blouse and started clasping it with her fists.

He put his palms on her shoulders. She flinched and wanted to get up, but firm pressure of Jasper's hands made her stay.

"Take a look around, Isabella," Jasper said. "Look how beautiful this kitchen is, you made it this way. You have everything you need here, right?"

Isabella, surprised, turned her head and looked above her to meet his eyes.

"Just cook your best meal and invite your acquaintances in. It's your house, Isabella, not jail," he said.

Isabella blinked.

"Besides you owe them, you should invite them to visit," Jasper added. "What do you think?"

Isabella wanted to deny it, but the thought about Esme made her heart beat faster. She noticed that she missed someone else than Peter for the first time since he died.

Peter.

She felt the sting of pain and she looked at her sweaty and crawling fingers.

"It's a good idea," she whispered.

"Great. Take care of it. Now you should get some sleep," Jasper said and got out of the kitchen.

Isabella could have sworn that she felt his fingers brushing her hair just for the moment.

**Author's Note:**

> The SRP team made it better. Thanks to Twilightladies for pre-reading and being the best creative beta. Thanks to HammerHips for her sparkly red pen and to Iksswrites - you rock.


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